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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137416">Rain</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chris_Quinton/pseuds/Chris_Quinton'>Chris_Quinton</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Highlander: The Series</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff and Humor, M/M, Versailles - Freeform, that Aran sweater Methos nicked from MacLeod</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:36:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,146</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137416</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chris_Quinton/pseuds/Chris_Quinton</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"It'll be a fine day," he said. "A sunny day," he said.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Duncan MacLeod/Methos (Highlander)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Rain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Up to three minutes ago, the gardens of Versailles had been a sun-drenched haven of tranquillity, in truth an earthly paradise, if a very formal one. The storm clouds had come out of nowhere it seemed, and opened up in a deluge of biblical proportions.</p><p>Most of the tourists ran for cover, but the two men down by Grand Canal did not -- mainly because one was filled with righteous wrath and the other was crippled with mirth.</p><p>The rain hammered down on Methos’ dark head, sleeking short hair to an otter’s pelt and trickling off the prominent nose in a miniature waterfall.</p><p>"MacLeod," he snarled. "You are going to die." Almost helpless with laughter, MacLeod backed away with less than his usual grace and Methos followed him. "Sun, you said. No rain. Well," he amended, "the odd light shower, you said. Does this look like a light shower to you? I am soaked to the skin!" He spread his arms to demonstrate, and the loose cream sweater flapped like batwings, stretched all out of shape by the weight of water in the fabric. The bottom hem that had draped comfortably over his hips now swung round his knees, while elongated cuffs slid past his hands to hang a good ten inches beyond his fingertips.</p><p>MacLeod howled in a fresh paroxysm of mirth, and at the same time thunder cracked over their heads.</p><p>Methos raised a furious fist to the blackened sky. "Who asked for your opinion?" he bellowed, and MacLeod curled over his aching stomach, sobbing. "It. Is. Not. Funny." Methos ground out the words between clenched teeth. "How could you get it so wrong? You were born a few years before weather-dot-com, for God’s sake! Didn’t commonsense and experience tell you this would happen? Oh, no, I was forgetting. Weather-lore Glenfinnan-style--if you can see across the loch, it’s going to rain. If you can’t see across the loch, it is raining. Whatever. You are going to die, MacLeod. Probably by drowning when I find a puddle deep enough. Which," he screamed at the sky, " will be any time now!"</p><p>That was the last straw for MacLeod. He collapsed to his knees in the sodden grass, landing with a distinct squelch that just made him laugh the more.</p><p>"You look," MacLeod wheezed, "like a drowned--"</p><p>"I am drowned!"</p><p>"It’s warm rain," MacLeod managed, in between struggles for breath. "Don’t make me laugh again--it hurts--"</p><p>"It’ll hurt a damn-sight more when I’ve finished with you!" Methos snapped. "Will you look at this sweater? It’s practically new and now--"</p><p>With a gasping yowl, MacLeod doubled over again, clutching his ribs. "My sweater," he choked out.</p><p>"So? I at least have respect for my--your--clothes! I don’t drag you out into a tropical storm that would have given Noah problems!"</p><p>"Not tropical. Versailles doesn’t do tropical."</p><p>"That’s it! Forget the puddle; you’re going into the Canal!" He lunged for MacLeod, but skidded on the waterlogged grass and would have measured his length if MacLeod hadn’t caught him. Methos clutched at wet white silk, but it was too slippery to get a grip.</p><p>"Shelter," MacLeod said, trying desperately for coherence. "Trees."</p><p>"In a thunderstorm?" Methos was outraged. "Are you completely insane? And will you stop giggling, for God’s sake! Grown men do not giggle!" Which started MacLeod off again.</p><p>With difficulty and monumental disgust, Methos pulled himself free and stood up, stripping off the offending sweater and throwing it at MacLeod’s head. "I’m leaving," he growled. "You can walk back to sodding Paris!"</p><p>"My car." MacLeod was at the hiccupping stage as he yanked the clinging mess of knitwear away so he could see. "My car keys are in my pocket. "</p><p>"They can be removed," Methos snarled, "along with your head!" He pounced, surefooted this time, and MacLeod found himself pinned on his back with Methos sitting on his stomach. "Keys! Give!"</p><p>"Uh-uh." Rain was still falling, was still cascading off the arc of that nose, and now it was sluicing down the pale skin, putting a gloss on the long sweeps of muscle and tendon that was Methos. MacLeod began to chuckle again, but this time there was an undertone that wasn’t there before: a sensuality that always lay so close to his surface where this one man was concerned. He moved under Methos’ weight, a slow glide, his hands sliding up the braced arms to cup the wet head. "Methos," he whispered, and watched the agate eyes darken with sudden hunger.</p><p>"Not here! In the middle of bloody-Versailles?" Methos whimpered. "God! Do you know what you look like? That wet silk’s transparent--you glow--"</p><p>"Methosss," he hissed, giving the name a husky sibilance that never failed to seduce. It didn’t fail now. Methos leaned down and took his mouth in a deep kiss, tongue probing, wordless murmurs of pleasure and arousal passing between them.</p><p>Methos slowly stretched out until he was lying full-length along MacLeod’s body, erections pressed together through their soaked clothing. MacLeod parted his thighs and fumbled for the waistband of Methos’ pants. A hand was performing the same service for him, and he gasped as their bodies came together again, heated skin on skin. Now Methos turned his attention to the silk shirt, but the buttons proved stubborn. The last one went flying off to be lost in the grass, and Methos gave a hiss of triumph as he spread the thin material away from MacLeod’s chest.</p><p>Thunder rolled again, and the rain became even heavier, bouncing off Methos’ back. He smiled, eyes narrowed, voracious. "He’s jealous," he drawled. "Him upstairs with His thunderbolts. You’re mine and I’m not sharing."</p><p>"Arrogant--" MacLeod’s words were stopped by another devouring kiss, so he stroked his hands down the lean back, pushed them under the loosened waistband and cupped the muscled haunches, rocking Methos against him in a rhythmic slide. Their penises slipped along wet skin, lubricated by rain and pre-ejaculate, pressed together by the weight of Methos’ body and the strength of MacLeod’s embrace. The rhythm became faster, Methos’ thrusts became harder, pleasure was a spiralling rip-tide that carried them on its crest to a shared completion, and MacLeod’s yell as his body spasmed in release was drowned out by the thunder above.</p><p>They lay still for a short while, locked together, until their hearts settled back to a normal beat. "Damn, you’re good," MacLeod whispered into a dripping ear.</p><p>"And you are incredibly muddy," Methos snickered.</p><p>"No problem," MacLeod murmured, running his tongue-tip around the ear. He rolled over, pinning Methos beneath him momentarily, then in one convulsive surge got to his feet and lifted the man with him. "The Canal’s just here--"</p><p>The roar of fury and the crash of two heavy bodies hitting the water were lost in the last rolling salute from the storm.</p><p>Minutes later, the sun broke through.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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